The Battle of Barracks Two
by Belphegor
Summary: Or how a simple feud between two barrack-mates turned into all-out war. Revenge is a tricky thing. Written for the 2013 Short Story Speed Writing Challenge.


**Author's notes**: For those who liked _Insidious_ and asked for more of Flight Sergeant Watkins vs. Newkirk :o)

_Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, except the original characters.  
_

* * *

**The Battle of Barracks Two**

No-one knows exactly how it started. These sorts of things tend to creep up on the unprepared, and the prepared are usually looking elsewhere at the time.

You might say it began when Germany invaded Poland, which caused the United Kingdom and France to go to war against Hitler; you might say it was a result of the vagaries of German POW administration; some said Flight Sergeant Theodore Watkins loathed Corporal Peter Newkirk from the very moment he walked through the door of Barracks 2.

Any way you slice it, the result was a deep, heartfelt dislike on either man's part, nudged on both sides by contempt, resentment and just plain and simple irrational, instantaneous antipathy.

Since neither Watkins nor Newkirk really were that popular, it usually didn't go very far, at first. Watkins was a bully posing as a nob, and Newkirk a cheeky Cockney with dodgy talents, so naturally the men with the most common sense opted for the safest approach – letting the two sort out their problem their way, and hope they would remember that they were supposed to fight the Germans, not each other, before something permanent happened.

Besides, nobody was very eager to directly confront Watkins, who as barracks chief had a certain amount of authority, as well as a few cohorts so eager to please it was downright embarrassing. Bartlett, Brooks and Milligan in particular (two sergeants and a corporal, all RAF) had eyes and ears everywhere. The minute they saw or heard something of potential interest, or a word they interpreted as a slight against the boss, they ran to him to report it.

Watkins then did what he felt was his responsibility and his right: he asked for "a word" with a smile, and then took the poor bugger behind the delousing shed for a wallop and the occasional shakedown.

Few complained, and when they did, they quickly stopped. The men, sometimes fresh off the Dulag and with the shock of battle and capture still raw in their minds, were too focused on not giving in to their own pervasive hollow despair to stand up for strangers. The lack of news from home only made it worse.

It's common enough in such circumstances for friendships to form and only grow stronger in time. Those with friends were usually left alone. There always was the risk of their mates objecting to one of their own being browbeaten and intimidated.

If you were a loner, God help you.

* * *

After a short observation period, Watkins came to the conclusion that Corporal Newkirk was something of a lone wolf. Newkirk quickly became the official scrounger, which was a double-edged position, as people found him useful but not to be trusted. Watkins could safely bet that anyone would think twice before standing up for him.

Watkins' little mental world had precise borders. Annoying, uppity Cockneys who kept smirking like they knew something you never would did _not_ belong in it.

Unfortunately, said Cockney proved impervious to intimidation attempts, subtle or not. Even a good set-to, three against one, didn't work; Newkirk walked out with two black eyes and a bleeding lip, but the same couldn't be said for Bartlett, Brooks, and especially Milligan (who walked funny for about a week afterwards). Watkins filed away Newkirk's talent at getting out of scraps for future reference, and changed tactics.

Meanwhile, the neutral occupants of Barracks 2 started counting points over tea.

* * *

Newkirk had emptied the contents of his locker on the floor a number of times, searched his inside pockets, even investigated the other blokes' lockers; now he was left wondering when he had last looked at that picture.

It wasn't any picture; it was a photo of his sister, Mavis. She'd given it to him and joked that he could quickly replace it with dozens of pictures of pretty Frenchwomen once on the continent.

Newkirk had laughed, but kept the picture, through all the fighting, his capture, and his eventual arrival at Stalag XIII. Mavis' grin was a little bit of home. It meant he still had family, someone to go back to.

So he kept searching, brows furrowed, muttering profanities all the while.

"Looking for something, Corporal?"

"No," Newkirk said without looking at Watkins, "I'm spring-cleaning. Now shove off."

Watkins leaned against a nearby locker and inspected his nails. "I'd take a look at the trash, if I were you. If you're lucky, they haven't burned it yet."

Newkirk's eyes went round. "You d—you _bloody_—"

Watkins cocked a supercilious eyebrow at him. Newkirk _hated_ that eyebrow.

"Better hurry."

Newkirk kicked over the trash can and got three days in the cooler, but recovered his photo, crumpled and grimy but thankfully whole.

Watkins would _pay_ for that.

WATKINS – 1, NEWKIRK – 0

* * *

"_Dammit!_"

Watkins' dismayed cry shook the whole barracks. Then he tore out of his quarters, brandishing something that looked very much like pants (or what pants looked like before they were pants), red-faced and incoherent with rage.

"What's wrong, Watkins?" Davies asked.

Watkins exhaled slowly.

"Someone – _don't smile, I swear if someone smiles I'll lock him in my cupboard till next roll call_ – removed the stitches from my underwear. All the stitches. From _all_ my underwear."

The whole barracks very pointedly did _not_ smile. They also, to a man, did _not_ look at a certain corporal.

Newkirk was sitting cross-legged on his bunk, darning a sock and whistling _The Lambeth Walk_; Watkins advanced on him like a bull to a red flag, fury burning in his eyes. "_You_ did this. I can't prove anything, but – by God, if you so much as put a _toe_ out of line, I'll …"

Newkirk was still smirking. Watkins _hated_ that smirk.

"You'll sew this together again. That's an order."

Newkirk threw him a pointed look.

"Do you really want to trust me with your underwear, Flight Sergeant? I'm a lousy tailor under pressure, you know."

Watkins went purple, and retreated to his quarters again, fuming.

As the door banged shut, Newkirk took up his needle again with a satisfied grin.

WATKINS – 1, NEWKIRK – 1

* * *

The tunnel was starting to look promising. The entrance was concealed in a trick footlocker, the removed earth went directly to the vegetable patch, and they had just opened their first ventilation shaft. Hope lifted spirits, helped by the improving atmosphere in the barracks.

Then, one evening, Newkirk climbed on his bunk only to crash down on the thankfully empty lower bed below.

When he had recovered from the shock and staggered to his feet, they discovered that half the wood slats from his bunk had gone missing.

Naturally, everyone turned to Watkins, who looked serenely unapologetic.

"Terribly sorry, Corporal. I forgot you slept there and used the slats to prop up the walls below."

Newkirk rubbed the back of his head, glaring silently.

_I'll get him back for this_.

WATKINS – 2, NEWKIRK – 1

* * *

Summer ended, September began, and still Newkirk did not retaliate. The men of Barracks 2 started to wonder why.

For some, it was because of the Blitz, which weighed on every mind, especially Londoners'. For others, it was because of the newest arrival, a tiny Frenchman who didn't talk much to anybody except Newkirk, who highly enjoyed pushing his buttons.

Others speculated that the longer Newkirk waited, the more Watkins sweated, which, judging by Newkirk's smirk, might be exactly the point.

As it turned out, it was.

One afternoon, Sergeant Schultz found Newkirk on a bench behind Barracks 2, lounging in the sun with his legs crossed at the ankles and a grin on his face.

That grin usually boded ill for somebody, and Schultz didn't like it much, entertaining though it was.

"What are you doing, Newkirk?"

"Fishin', Schultz."

"There's no fish here!"

"Au contraire, mate. I'm expecting it to bite anytime now."

Schultz looked around, puzzled, with the distinct impression that he was being had but not quite seeing how. Eventually he sat beside Newkirk, who appeared to be drowsing, and waited.

Five minutes later, a hair-raising scream came from the inside of the barracks, making Schultz jump a foot in the air. Newkirk's grin widened.

"Told you."

"W—w—what happened?" Schultz grabbed his rifle automatically, throwing wild glances around. "Who was that?"

"_That_ was Flight Sergeant Watkins, who should know better than to try to filch the bar of Cadbury's best Dairy Milk I keep in me mattress. Can't trust anyone these days, honestly."

"But—how did he know it was there?"

"I let it slip yesterday. 'Course, I might also have warned him I took a few precautions against that sort of thing."

Schultz glanced at Newkirk, not knowing whether to laugh or drag him to the cooler.

"'Precautions'?"

"A few upturned roofing tacks in my bunk."

Schultz closed his eyes in dismay.

When he opened them, he saw Watkins limping round the corner, glowering at Newkirk in impotent fury.

"By the way, Schultzie, I seem to have a bar of chocolate here in my pocket. Want some?"

As he munched on a piece of Cadbury's best Dairy Milk, Schultz reflected that he wouldn't like to be Newkirk's enemy. For real, that is.

WATKINS – 2, NEWKIRK – 2

* * *

As September rolled into October, some of the prisoners began to shift from neutral to sympathetic to Newkirk, who even on bad days was far more likeable than Watkins (if unpredictable and not quite trustworthy enough for their tastes). At some point Newkirk and LeBeau had become fast friends, against all odds; each had now a fierce defender in the other, which made intimidation more difficult.

It was a totally novel experience for Newkirk, and his spirits only rose higher when Davies, Saunders and Harper (until then left alone) decided they'd had enough of Watkins' style of justice and put their foot down when Watkins accused him of stealing his wallet.

The fact that Newkirk filled said wallet with wet dirt the day after did not changed their minds.

Still Watkins' and Newkirk's feud persisted, and still the men silently counted points.

WATKINS – 3, NEWKIRK – 4

* * *

Christmas was a tiny island in a wind-tossed ocean of animosity. During that one blessed day, the two belligerents called a truce, and the whole barracks breathed a sigh of relief.

The men huddled around the stove, sang carols and enjoyed a Christmas dinner that was better than they feared – thanks in part to Watkins (who had legally obtained suitable food from the senior POW officer, Flight Sergeant Rutherford), to Newkirk (who had illegally obtained more food from the officers' mess), and to LeBeau, who had done such a good job that he was immediately promoted to official barracks cook.

War raged on all around them, but there, for a little while, peace reigned.

WATKINS – 5, NEWKIRK – 8

* * *

The problem with this sort of close-quarter conflict (even more so in dramatic circumstances such as war and imprisonment) is the escalation.

It can't be helped.

No matter how harmless each retaliation appeared, the atmosphere slowly went from mediocre to bad, and from bad to worse. The only thing that changed were the dynamics: Newkirk had started out angry and defensive, willing to humiliate Watkins at all costs, while Watkins had wanted to heckle and bully Newkirk into obedience, confident that it would take a very short time. In the last eight months, however, Newkirk had gained confidence and sorted out his priorities (improving the tunnel, for instance), whereas Watkins had reached a constant state of rage and continuously looked for new revenge schemes.

February 1941 saw a lull in their conflict, as a flu-like sickness struck Stalag XIII and incapacitated half the barracks. Things even got hairy, especially for Harper and Newkirk, who were touch and go for a while.

So perhaps it was not unexpected that, although Newkirk insisted he'd made a full recovery, LeBeau took his shift in the tunnel one afternoon, saying the Englishman could dig another week. Newkirk reluctantly accepted, secretly grateful, and LeBeau climbed down with Davies and a couple of burlap bags to move the dirt.

What _was_ unexpected was Watkins' reaction as he entered the barracks and saw Newkirk drinking tea near the stove. He seemed surprised, and a little bit uneasy.

"What are you doing here, Newkirk?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Newkirk asked dryly. Watkins rolled his eyes.

"I mean it was supposed to be _your_ shift. What happened, come down with a sudden case of amnesia?"

"I didn't forget anything. Just swapped shifts with LeBeau, that's all."

Watkins stared at him, one eyebrow cocked. "Did you now." He checked for guards, and peered into the trick footlocker just as Davies emerged, carrying two full bags. "Everything all right, down there?"

"Absolutely." Davies' grin shone in his dirt-covered face. "We're making good progress. In fact we're almost a foot –"

He was cut by a rumbling sound that was low enough to make everyone look around uneasily, thinking rather than saying, _Did you hear that, too?_

Having worked in a colliery, Davies was familiar enough with the sounds of earth to go white and scramble back down the tunnel. The penny dropped at the same time for Newkirk, who ran to the footlocker, his heart pounding.

After a few heavy seconds, they all distinctly heard Davies' voice yelling, "Don't just stand there, for Chrissakes! Give us a hand!"

And it was a hand they found first, digging frantically, while Davies and Mills kept an eye on the pillars to prevent further collapses. Surprisingly – thankfully – nothing else moved as they dug out the unconscious LeBeau and pulled him up through the footlocker.

It took them a long time (by Newkirk's reckoning, anyway) to get him to breathe again. When he finally did, Newkirk sank down on the bench, fervently wishing for something a lot stronger than tea.

"You're a lucky bugger, you know that?" said Davies, grinning again, albeit a little shakily.

"Are you all right?" Saunders asked. LeBeau blinked at Davies. He was still very white under the dirt, but life (and disbelief) sparked again in his eyes.

"'Lucky'? Tu te fous de moi? J'ai failli y passer, et il me dit que j'ai de la chance … 'Lucky' … Non mais je vous jure …"

"He's all right," Newkirk cut in with a smile, keeping his voice carefully steady. "What happened, then?"

LeBeau gratefully took the glass of water Harper handed him, and shook his head, still wheezing.

"I don't know. Everything just came down." He drank a little, then froze. "No, wait – there was something. One of the pillars broke near the top."

The 'pillars' were carefully-twined-together wood slats, to be replaced by stronger planks when they had a few feet of decent-sized room. They weren't big, but they were sturdy.

Davies frowned. "How?"

"Very quickly. I heard a 'crack', and then –" he made a very expressive gesture "– it caved in."

Needless to say, they continued their tunnel a lot more slowly and carefully after that.

About a week after the incident, they reached the pre-cave-in area, and Davies chanced on the broken pillar. He peered at it, stood back, and gave it an even closer look. When he climbed back topside, fury radiated from him in waves, so hot that Mills, who was standing nearby, discreetly slunk away.

"Who," he snarled, "is the foolish, crazy, criminally stupid _arse_ who sabotaged my tunnel?"

Davies had forgotten that he had, in fact, hated working in the mine, forgotten that this tunnel was the work of everybody in the barracks. He was the closest thing they had to an engineer; he was responsible.

Someone had clearly sawed through a good part of the wood. Gravity had done the rest.

Newkirk scrutinised the pillar, and his eyes went wide. "No wonder it all collapsed like that. But who—? I mean—" He went very still; a deep, deep fury slowly rose within him. "You bastard … Oh, you sick, sick bastard … You didn't–?"

He was not facing anyone in particular, but every head in the barracks turned to Watkins, who had kept uncharacteristically quiet for the past week.

Watkins locked his hands behind his back, and shifted awkwardly.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Newkirk."

"Yes, you bloody well do!" Newkirk crossed the distance between them in two strides and found himself nose-to-nose with him. "I don't see any other reason someone would do something as bloomin' crazy as that! LeBeau could 'ave died in there, or Davies! _I_ could've died in there!"

"You wouldn't have _died_," Watkins snapped back. Then he noticed everybody staring at him blankly, and shifted slightly, suddenly awkward. "Look, I just meant to scare you with a little bit of dirt. The whole ceiling shouldn't have come down like it did. _That_ was an accident."

Newkirk saw red. "An 'accident'? You b—"

Before he could finish his word, Davies exploded.

"Do you or do you not know anything about tunnelling, you monumental prat? You could've created a chain reaction that would have brought down the whole tunnel! The whole camp woulda felt that! You could've murdered two men, two of your own! Do you even realise that?"

Watkins stood stiffly, despite the fact that he outranked Davies. Maybe the shock of seeing the normally sarcastic but quiet Welshman fly off the handle was enough. Or maybe he did feel guilty.

Of what exactly was anybody's guess.

"All right," he said in clipped tones, still looking as though his spine had been starched, "I'm sorry. I endangered the tunnel and my comrades, and I won't make the same mistake again."

This seemed to defuse Davies' wrath.

"You'd better not," he muttered.

"That should've been me down there," Newkirk mumbled as Watkins left the barracks, taking some of the tension with him. Fury still burned in his chest, but it competed with a retrospective cold fear. Davies had been right – LeBeau _had_ been lucky. Who knew if he would have been, too? "Blimey, the nerve of that—hey, you all right, Louis?"

LeBeau had gone pale, but if his eyes were anything to go by, it was from the same slowly-mounting, burning anger Newkirk had felt earlier.

"Quel salopard," he muttered, his eyes glued to the barracks door.

Newkirk didn't understand the word, but he had a feeling he wholeheartedly agreed.

WATKINS – 9, NEWKIRK – 11

* * *

Watkins' 'mistake' had three consequences. First, the entire barracks gave him the cold shoulder for months. The general agreement was that you could be as vicious as you wanted to somebody, rough him up, mess with his belongings. Actually almost killing him, however (even involuntarily), was not cricket. Almost killing a mate of his instead even less so.

The second consequence was that so far, Newkirk had been playing nice, so to speak. His 'practical jokes' had been petty enough. Humiliating, annoying, yes, but nothing more. But he had been badly scared for LeBeau, and not just a little on his own behalf as well, and he fully intended to make Watkins pay dearly for that scare. With interests.

As for the third consequence … Theodore Watkins learned a very important rule that day in the spring of '41. It's one of those unspoken rules that holds communities together, especially in circumstances like these; one of the rules which help people live in relative harmony without having to be suspicious of everything.

If you value your life and your sanity, never antagonise the cook.

WATKINS – 10, NEWKIRK – 17

* * *

As summer approached, Watkins, by now on edge and half-paranoid after having his food systematically tampered with, tried to alternate between the barracks and the mess hall for meals to avoid LeBeau.

It didn't work.

WATKINS – 12, NEWKIRK – 26

* * *

By June, there was nobody left on Watkins' side. Even the ones he and his gang had relatively left alone joined in. The most vicious were the loners, who had been unremittingly put down for months before Watkins gave his entire attention to Newkirk, forced to give a steady percentage of chocolate bars and cigarettes, and ruthlessly pummelled when they tried to refuse. The whole barracks stood united, which was a first in the (admittedly short) history of the camp, against one man.

Try as he might to retaliate, Watkins didn't stand a chance.

In the space of a month, his bunk was sawed in half, his comb was missing half its teeth, all of his socks disappeared overnight, he found every other morning his shoes soaking wet, and pages of his favourite books were ripped off and glued back again in the wrong places (which was a controversial move, as a few book-lovers vehemently protested afterwards).

Newkirk enjoyed himself immensely, when he wasn't actively trying to ignore the nagging thought that what they were doing was little better than what Watkins was originally doing. LeBeau, who hated messing with food on general principles, relished the fact that he didn't need to actually _do_ anything anymore, as long as he simply looked at Watkins and _smiled_.

That smile never failed to set Watkins' teeth on edge.

They drew the line, however, at 'life-threatening', as well as anything that potentially involved the Germans in any way. After all, there had to be limits.

For the Kommandant and the guards Barracks 2 had become the hooligans, the unruly lot, the ones to watch closely. Watkins, as barracks chief, was generally thought to be the ringleader.

The irony wasn't lost on anyone.

WATKINS – 16, BARRACKS 2 AS A WHOLE (including NEWKIRK – 30) – 42

* * *

"Look, Flight Sergeant, all I'm saying is that we – including me, of course – might have gone a mite overboard with the whole thing. So … Are you listening to me?"

Watkins, Newkirk reflected, did not look good. His eyes were bloodshot, his naturally proud posture was slumped, and of late he tended to compulsively glare at _everything_. Non-stop. Even the guards were starting to be unnerved.

To be fair, Newkirk couldn't really blame the bloke.

"So, as I was saying, maybe, if we try to behave like responsible, reasonable men, I reckon we can work something out, like a cessation of hostilities. What do you think?"

Watkins stared at him for such a long time Newkirk wondered if he had understood the question.

"You know, you, me, peace. I say sorry, you say sorry, everybody apologises, and we're done. What do you say?"

Silence.

"Look, I don't think I can make it simpler. The others didn't put me up to this, if you're wondering, I'm just … Well, to be honest, I think it's gone too far. One bloke against an entire barracks is not really fair, even if he's a git—sorry, couldn't help it."

Silence again.

"Flight Sergeant, you're starting to give me the creeps."

"Go to hell, Newkirk."

"Beg your pardon?"

Watkins inhaled slowly. His whole broad frame seemed to swell.

"The whole thing," he said, "the pranks, the—these so-called 'jokes'—Everything that happened did because of you, and you have the _nerve_ to stand there and tell me 'we' should apologise!? I hope you get shot next time you escape!"

Newkirk frowned. "Hey, now, I'm just trying to –"

"I know what you're trying to do! You're trying to get me to surrender and carry on as if nothing happened, when I've been humiliated, ridiculed, every day for months! Because of you!" By now he was truly worked up, and getting redder by the second. "I should have got rid of you somehow – should have plucked you out from the beginning! You're rotten to the core, and now you've infected the whole barracks! You're like a disease! And you want me to '_apologise_'?"

Newkirk knew he should take offence at Watkins' words (part of himself was encouraging him to punch the flight sergeant in the mouth, and cheering at the thought) but in the end what he was mainly feeling was pity. Behind his arrogance and his scorn for anything he considered below him, Watkins was just a sad, pathetic man, hiding behind an exaggerated sense of self-importance.

He buried his hands in his pockets and cocked his head slightly to the side.

"So I take it the answer's no, eh?" And, just as Watkins breathed in for another tirade, he deadpanned, "What you need is a change of scenery. You know, maybe put in for a transfer to another Stalag. I hear the Rhineland is very nice this time of year …"

"I _won't_ transfer," Watkins muttered between clenched teeth. "I refuse to take the coward's way out."

WATKINS – 18, BARRACKS 2 AS A WHOLE (including NEWKIRK – 30) – 52

* * *

Just one week later, the Barracks 2 boys were gathered in the compound as Flight Sergeant Watkins climbed into the truck that would take him to Stalag XVIII.

Davies, who was senior Sergeant, was appointed barracks chief. His first order as such was to remind his fellow prisoners that the priority was the tunnel first, solo escape attempts second, and finally never making anything easy for the Germans – while maintaining a wholesome atmosphere in the barracks – third.

FINAL SCORE:

WATKINS – 18

NEWKIRK – 30

BARRACKS 2 AS A WHOLE – 56

* * *

Klink purposely assigned Colonel Hogan to this particular barracks, almost a year later. The new senior POW officer found a surprisingly closely knit group of men where he had been told to expect a bunch of incorrigible mavericks.

When he asked what had happened to bring them together like this, Newkirk smirked and said that all the credit went to Flight Sergeant Watkins.

* * *

THE END

Translations/Notes:

_Tu te fous de moi? J'ai failli y passer, et il me dit que j'ai de la chance_: Are you bloody kidding me? I almost kicked the bucket, and he tells me I'm lucky!

_Non mais je vous jure_: I swear to you (general expression meaning 'you're/the world is mad')

_Quel salopard_: What a bastard.

I intended to include something about Watkins actually redeeming himself once in Stalag XVIII, but ran out of room :o]


End file.
